rf"*     B      i   •"•'          Rk     d      A    ^      ^ 

• 


SFMHW 


J40  PAL/f/C    A 

LO.VC,  ar.-n-  H 


She  Who  Will  Not 
When  She  May 


\VHII.K    I    WORKED    AWAY    AT    MODKI.ING." 


She  Who  Will  Not 
When  She  May 

By 
Eleanor  G.  Walton 


Illustrated  by 
C.  P.  M.  Rumford 


Philadelphia 
Henry  Altemus 

MDCCCXCVIII 


Copyright   1898,   by  Henry  Altemus 


List  of  Illustrations 


"  WHILE  I  WORKED  AWAY  AT  MODELING  " 

— Frontispiece 

"  NATURE  is  PERFECT  HERE,  BUT" —  facing  page  28 

"  WE  LUNCHED  SUMPTUOUSLY  ON 

QUAIL  AND  CHAMPAGNE"          facing  page    98 

"  I  WILL  Go  OUT  OF  YOUR  LIFE  "     facing  page  no 


2046113 


Letter  i. 


MILFORD,  June  8th,  1894. 

DEAR  JACK  : 

I  never  felt  less  like  seeing  people  in 
my  life.  In  fact  I  am  in  just  that  antagon 
istic  state  of  mind  when  it  would  be  the 
worst  thing  for  me  ;  and  I  look  forward  to 
these  few  weeks  "  alone  with  my  books  " 
and  chisel,  with  grim  delight. 

If  you  will  let  your  mind  drift  here- 
ward,  dear,  you  will  probably  find  me  in 
Uncle  Ellis'  old  library  curled  up  in  a  gen 
erous  old  linen-covered  chair,  whose  high 
back  and  arms  hide  me  from  prying  eyes. 


It  is  a  delightful  old  library  and  ought 
to  have  been  my  mother's  ;  but  fate  and  an 
ungenerous  will  placed  it  in  the  hands  of 
an  illiterate  uncle,  who  has  suspicions  of 
anyone  who  prefers  a  book  to  a  plough. 

I  love  to  sit  in  this  dear  old  room, 
peopled  with  the  thoughts,  imaginings,  and 
longings  of  other  people,  and  of  all  ages ; 
to  get  away  from  one's  self  for  an  hour.  I 
am  trying  to  arrange  in  some  order  these 
scattered  volumes.  Ma-foi !  I  need  just 
such  an  overhauling  !  My  feelings  need 
catalogueing  !  And  if  I  did  catalogue  them 
where  would  you  be,  my  lord  ?  Relegated 
to  an  alphabetical  list  of  Past  Pleasures  and 
Forbidden  Fruit. 

This  old  library  has  row  upon  row  of 
fine  old  books,  broad  margins,  vellum  and 
historical  bindings,  and  choice  first  editions. 
It  is  one  of  those  old-fashioned  two-story 
libraries.  Books  to  the  ceiling — a  rickety 
old  balcony  round  the  room.  So,  cher 
ami,  I  shall  be  left  for  a  few  weeks  here,  as 
Gladstone  says,  "  in  company  with  that 

10 


great  dead  with  whom  we  may  commune 
at  leisure." 

Patchwork  reading  is  a  tonic  to  me. 
To  hold  in  one  hand  Jeremy  Taylor,  and 
then  peep  into  Tom  Jones  and  his  wicked 
doings,  and  then  as  the  afternoon  sun  comes 
peeping  into  the  room,  bringing  that  de 
licious  feeling  of  drowsiness,  to  open  that 
newer  looking  volume  to  the  left,  and  while 
away  a  few  minutes  with  Shelley  and  Mary 
Wollstonecraft  on  the  shores  of  Lake  Como. 

Did  you  ever  think  if  you  were  cast 
on  a  desert  isle  what  book  you  would  take 
with  you,  could  you  take  but  one  ?  Some 
great  man  once  said  the  dictionary,  "  That 
most  consummate  expression  of  human 
feelings  in  existence."  But  I  think,  cher 
ami,  I  would  pack  in  my  grip  that  little 
volume  of  Max  Muller's  Memories,  which 
we  have  read  and  re-read  so  often  together, 
and  just  as  often,  cher  ami,  disagreed  over. 
Your  letter  to-day  was  not  half  bad.  In 
fact  there  is  only  one  drawback  in  reading 
your  letters — I  dread  to  come  to  the  end 
n 


of  them.  Now  this  phrase  is  not  original. 
A  very  clever  woman  once  wrote  it.  A 
woman  whose  friendship  for  a  well-known 
man  in  the  world  of  letters  lasted  over 
thirty-two  years.  Does  that  appall  you  ?  Do 
you  think  you  will  be  my  friend  that  long  ? 
I  mail  you  with  this,  a  story  I  found  in  an 
old  English  magazine.  You  will  like  it,  I 
know.  The  repartee  is  so  keen  and  bright. 
I  know  a  man  very  much  like  the  hero. 
Just  as  clever  at  turning  a  phrase.  Do  you 
know  him  ?  You  ought  to — he  is  your 
worst  enemy.  You  silly  boy,  who  do  the 
philosophers  say  is  a  man's  worst  enemy  ? 
I  like  the  way  this  man  in  the  book  proposes. 

"Will  you  marry  me  ?"  he  ventures. 

"Why  do  you  ask?" 

"  Partly  from  curiosity,  partly  because 
it  is  the  only  way  I  can  make  sure  of  seeing 
you  again,  and  then  I  like  your  hair.  Will 
you?" 

Clever,  n'est  pas  ? 

KATHARINE. 


12 


Letter  n. 


MILFORD,  June  I2th,  1894. 
MON  AMI  : 

While  you  are  doing  the  festive  in  the 
gay  city,  I  am  doing  nothing  in  the  drow 
siest  and  sleepiest  of  villages.  It  has  beau 
tiful  hills  and  shaded  walks,  and  I  have 
known  the  time  when  to  sit  here  and  drink 
in  all  its  beauties  (it  is  all  they  give  one  to 
drink  in  this  terrible  village)  was  content 
ment.  But  I  have  such  a  passion  of  antag 
onism  that  I  long  for  the  asphalt  walks  and 
the  smart  cafes  and  conventionalities  of  the 
most  worldly  kind.  Everything  seems 

'5 


wrong.  Why  can't  we  have  the  things  we 
want  before  we  lose  our  appetites  waiting 
and  longing  for  them  ? 

My  life's  basket  seems  full  of  the  fruit 
I  care  nothing  for ;  and  the  fruit  I  once 
loved  and  could  have  had  but  passed  by, 
I  now  long  for  and  cannot  have.  It  has 
either  rotted  or  some  one  else  has  it.  You 
may  think  me  an  ingrate  to  write  this  way 
when  one  thing  is  mine,  one  thing  I  prize 
most  dearly — your  friendship.  But  even 
that  won't  last. 

Baf!  I  have  the  blue  devils.  Write 
me  of  the  silly  frivolous  world  you  are  in, 
of  your  small  gossip  and  of  your  gay  peo 
ple.  It  will  fit  into  my  feelings  best  now. 
I  read,  loaf,  eat,  and  sleep,  which  process, 
my  dear  Jack,  may  tend  to  enlarge  my 
waist,  if  not  my  brain. 

I  went  to  a  lawn  fete  yesterday.  It 
was  rather  pretty.  The  women  were  lovely  ; 
all  fluttering  about  in  pink,  yellow,  and 
white  organdies.  The  men,  ugh,  were  aw 
ful.  I  was  bored  to  death.  I  am  tired  of 
16 


men.  What,  did  you  laugh  ?  Will  you 
kindly  apologize  at  once  ?  I  really  am 
tired  of  the  sex.  Isn't  there  a  colony  in 
Asia  where  only  women  dwell  ?  Methinks 
I  have  read  of  it  some  place.  But  after  all 
I  think  I  am  more  tired  of  my  own  sex,  and 
men  are  perhaps  the  best  of  all  stupid  things 
known.  One  in  particular  is  decidedly 
charming  when  he  wants  to  be.  Now  who 
do  you  think  that  is,  my  dear  fellow  ?  Ah, 
my  dear  Apollo,  I  am  sure  you  know. 
Can't  you  guess  who  he  is  ?  Now  don't 
be  too  modest. 

Yours, 

KATHARINE. 


Letter  in. 


PHILADELPHIA,  June  i4th,  1894. 
MY  DEAR  KATHARINE: 

Your  "  no  one  to  love  "  letter  was  very 
characteristic,  and  a  good  photograph  of 
one  of  your  moods.  Neither  your  railing 
at  the  appeal  to  the  Deity  or  black  hints  at 
finding  a  sweet  rest  in  the  winding  river, 
disturbed  me.  I  did  not  even  feel  flattered 
at  your  suggestion  of  preference  for  my 
company  and  my  "  winning  ways."  By 
this  time  your  mood  has  had  a  tonic — an 
antidote.  You  probably  are  convalescent. 
It  was  simply  a  bad  attack  of  "lack  of 


interest."  The  city  is  deuced  hot  and  dusty. 
You  ought  to  be  grateful  you  are  out  of  it. 
I  was  bored  to  distraction  last  night  and 
had  to  take  refuge  in  a  quiet  smoke  and  a 
dream  of  a  very  dear  little  woman  whom  I 
am  longing  to  see. 

I  had  four  people  to  dine  with  me  here. 
All  silly  worldlings,  lacking  all  elements  of 
interest.  They  fed,  traded  compliments, 
exchanged  the  usual  inane  jokes  and  dis 
cussions  on  the  marriage  question,  became 
mildly  sentimental  in  the  moonlight  after 
cocktails  and  the  best  Chateau  la  Rose  I 
could  get  them,  and  then  departed. 

Merci  a  bon  Dieu  !  I  have  an  antidote 
for  all  after-tastes  of  such  things.  I  love 
out  of  doors,  to  walk,  golf,  play  polo,  ride, 
and  do  all  these  things  Hard.  I  love  to 
get  wet  to  my  healthy  skin  and  look  dis 
graceful,  and  Live.  Live!  The  sense  of 
physical  intoxication  that  comes  to  me 
sometimes  is  a  gift  straight  from  some 
Greek  god ;  from  some  sinuous,  velvet- 
skinned  tiger.  I  am  coming  to  that 


"  Deserted  Village "  of  yours  to  see  you 
soon.  No  !  Don't  write  me  I  must  not.  I 
will  pay  no  attention  to  your  orders.  Put 
on  your  stout  boots,  prepare  a  good  disposi 
tion  and  a  loving  heart  and  we  will  together 
go  on  a  wild  tramp  over  those  hills  of  yours, 
trusting  to  luck  when  noontide  comes  to 
be  welcomed  by  the  sight  of  some  swing 
ing  sign  from  a  wayside  tavern  or  some 
hospitable  cosy  farm  house.  If  not, 

"  A  book  of  verses,  underneath  the  bough, 
A  jug  of  wine,  a  loaf  of  bread—  and  thou 
Beside  me  singing  in  the  wilderness, 
Oh,  •wilderness  were  paradise  enew  !" 

Your  earnest  belief  that  we  shall  never 
fall  in  love  with  one  another  but  shall  be 
ever  the  closest  and  best  of  friends,  watched 
over  by  that  guardian  angel  of  yours,  Plato, 
should  never  make  less  our  desire  to  be  to 
gether.  The  affection  you  bear  me  is  sim 
ply  an  overflowing  of  the  intellect.  You 
are  all  mind — one  of  those  women  whose 
cleverness  drowns  her  heart.  Yet,  notwith 
standing  all  these  complainings,  I  love 

23 


better  to  see  you  this  way  than  not  at  all. 
Throw  away  the  "blues."  You  tell  me 
you  love  sunshine,  and  I,  though  I  love 
your  ladyship  always,  in  fair  or  cloudy 
weather,  yet  seeing  you  "  beneath  the  blue 
sky"  is  an  exquisite  happiness.  I  have 
touched  on  a  subject  I  know  you  do  not 
like. 

This  strikes  me  as  rather  a  stupid  effort 
after  all !  "  Gloria  in  Excelsis  "  was  played 
with  a  wrong  pedal,  and  probably  won't 
cheer  you.  If  not,  blame  it  on  the  fact  that 
nature  failed  to  make  me  the  Stoic  you 
would  want  me  to  be.  Until  Sunday, 
Yours, 

JACK. 

P.  S. — For  a  man  who  believes  that 
letter-writing  is  the  veriest  nonsense,  I  have 
done  well.  J.  H. 


Letter  iv. 


MILFORD,  June  i6th,  1894. 
DEAR  JACK  : 

Rural  beauties  are  all  very  well,  but 
one  can't  subsist  on  them  solely.  As  I  sit 
here  this  afternoon,  from  my  secure  perch 
on  the  lower  bough  of  an  old  apple  tree, 
I  can  see  down  the  bank  the  silent  river. 
As  it  flows  past  the  old  farm-houses  and 
groups  of  children  and  sleek-looking  cattle, 
it  carries  in  its  silent  depths  secrets  of  past 
generations.  All  this  helps  make  up  a  per 
fect  scene,  but  it  makes  one  feel  the  want 
of  some  dear  one  to  enjoy  it ;  it  makes  one 
feel  the  want  of  some  dear  one  close  by ; 

27 


the  want  of  a  soul  to  sympathize  with  the 
feelings  which  arise  in  and  the  thoughts 
which  come  to  one's  heart.  Nature  is  per 
fect  here,  but  the  people  !  ma  foi !  In  fact, 
my  dear  Jack,  it  is  just  one  of  those  cases 
of  "  every  prospect  pleases  and  only  man  is 
vile."  Why  will  you  tantalize  me  with  the 
hope  of  seeing  you  up  here  ?  You  told  me 
it  was  absolutely  impossible  for  you  to  get 
away  for  even  a  day  before  August.  But 
my  dear  old  man,  you  will  be  doing  a  most 
charitable  deed  if  you  will  come.  Another 
week  of  this  life  will  make  me  a  fit  candi 
date  for  an  insane  asylum.  This  round  of 
sleep,  eat  and  drink  will  kill  me.  Come 
Saturday  if  possible,  and  you  will  find  your 
old  comrade  waiting  for  you  at  the  old  shed 
of  a  station,  with  a  one-horse  chaise  whose 
sole  merit  is  its  antiquity.  I  send  this  to 
the  Club  to  catch  you  at  luncheon.  Come 
and  save  me  from  moral  and  mental  stag 
nation. 

Yours  in  all  sincerity, 

KATHARINE. 
28 


P.  S. — A  box  of  sweetmeats  would  not 
be  refused.  The  kind  they  offer  one  in  the 
village  store  here,  I  think  were  made  for 
the  children  of  the  Red  Sea,  and  for  the 
little  boys  Herod  ordered  killed. 


Telegram. 


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Letter  v. 


MILFORD,  June  2oth,  1894. 

BON  VOYAGE PLUS  CHER  AMI  : 

How  many  days  out  will  it  take  for 
my  memory  to  fade  into  an  indistinct  blue 
on  the  background  of  your  heart?  You 
are  "sea  proof"  I  know,  for  who  else  could 
have  taken  care  of  me  last  spring  on  that 
delicious  southern  sea  when  I  was — well 
we  won't  talk  about  it.  It  isn't  pleasant. 
Be  careful,  dear  heart,  life  on  shipboard  is 
always  seduisant,  and  once  under  the  spell 
of  that  word  you  are  lost.  Don't  walk 
about  with  that  sparsely  covered  blonde 
head  of  yours,  sniffing  trouble ;  leave  all 
those  stunning  New  York  women  to  the 

37 


less  attractive  men  ;  those  charming  little 
widows,  who  always  appear  on  shipboard. 
When  Pope  wrote,  "  A  little  learning  is  a 
dangerous  thing,"  I  am  sure  he  meant  "A 
little  widow  is  a  dangerous  thing."  So  my 
dear  old  clumsy  Jack,  just  go  sit  down  and 
muse  a  bit  on  "  The  girl  I  left  behind  me," 
for  she  will  be  just  silly  enough  to  indulge  in 
a  good  cry  when  the  clock  strikes  the  hour 
of  your  sailing.  Yes,  my  dear  Jack,  I  arn 
going  to  sit  me  down  in  a  quiet  little  nook 
back  of  the  old  barn  that  overlooks  the 
mountains  and  river,  and  have  a  delicious 
cry,  as  the  children  express  it.  I  don't  want 
to  be  selfish,  old  fellow,  but  I  will  miss  you 
mightily.  Oh  !  why  did  you  have  to  go  ? 
You  haven't  lost  your  already  mort 
gaged  heart,  have  you?  Do  you  know, 
Jack,  it  is  just  two  years  ago  to-day  since 
we  sealed  our  vow  of  eternal  friendship  with 
that  little  lunch  at  the  Club?  I  laugh  now 
when  I  think  how  I  eased  my  prickly  con 
science  at  the  idea  of  a  tete-a-tete  affair  and 
no  chaperon,  by  your  conviction  that  to  an 

38 


ordinary  society  girl  it  might  be  bad  form, 
but  the  fact  that  I  am  a  work-a-day  woman 
and  have  a  studio  of  my  own,  made  it  all 
right.  My  studio  was  my  protection  !  Ah  ! 
my  poor  atelier  covered  a  multitude  of 
sins.  Ah  !  my  sly  dear,  we  swallowed  a 
camel  and  strained  at  a  gnat  that  day.  My 
genius !  Bah  !  dear  old  Jack,  my  only 
genius  is  a  great  capacity  for  being  your 
best  friend.  You  see  now  I  was  right ! 
that  this  friendship  is  possible  between  man 
and  woman.  You  laughed  at  Plato,  but 
we,  dear  Jack,  have  proven  that  the  great 
love  I  bear  you  and  the  deep  protecting 
love  you  bear  me,  can  be  as  deep  and  free 
from  all  sentimentality  and  sensuality  as  the 
love  of  a  man  for  a  man.  And  last  year 
when  we  celebrated  the  event — July  2  ! 
Ah  !  you  remember.  Did  Newport  ever 
look  prettier,  and  was  a  cat -boat  ever  more 
badly  managed  ?  And  now,  dear  Jack,  you 
run  away.  I  had  prepared  a  surprise  for 
you.  A  delightful  day  in  the  most 
secluded  of  country  nooks.  You  know 

39 


Hopkinson  Smith's  "  Laguerre  and  Other 
Days  "  in  which  he  describes  a  day  on  the 
Bronx  ?  I  want  to  go  there  with  you.  I 
wrote  and  asked  him  if  it  were  reality  or 
fiction,  and  I  enclose  his  reply  which  came 
to-day.  So  dear,  if  we  cannot  be  together 
in  the  flesh,  at  least  we  can  be  together  in 
thought.  And  I  warn  you,  my  gay  Lo 
thario,  if  you  are  flirting  with  any  chic- 
looking  New  York  girl  near  the  starboard 
watch  at  ten  to-night,  I  will  see  you.  I 
will  come  alongside  in  the  form  of  a  golden- 
haired  mermaid,  and  woe  unto  you  if  you 
do  not  appear  at  the  taffrail  and  come  with 
me  to  my  shell-lined  grotto  under  the  sea. 
Again,  bon  voyage,  dear  Jack.  I  wish  you 
would  look  up  that  sketch  for  me  in  Paris  ; 
you  can  find  some  clue  to  it  in  the  list  of 
the  pictures  of  Bastien  Lepage.  Thank 
you  for  the  plaster  cast.  Poor  Michael 
Angelo  would  groan  in  his  tomb.  But  it 
is  not  a  half  bad  copy.  Amuse  yourself 
well,  old  fellow,  but  don't  forget  me. 

KATHARINE. 
40 


Letter  vi. 


U.S.M  S."STLOUIS 

June  25th. 
DEAR  KATHARINE  : 

What  wretched  traveling  menageries 
are  these  great  ocean  hotels !  I  do  not 
think  the  Ark  could  have  been  more  noisy 
and  crowded.  Thank  heaven  they  are 
swift,  and  the  agony  is  soon  over.  It  is  a 
bit  late  for  the  hoi  polloi,  and  I  know  very 
few  people  on  board.  Your  letter  was 
charming,  chere  amie,  and  very  character 
istic.  You  know  so  well  I  can  think  of 

43 


no  one  but  you.  Never  talk  to  me  of 
seduisant  life  on  board  ship  without  you.  If 
it  had  not  been  for  this  beastly  case  of  Ral- 
stons'  that  I  must  look  up,  I  would  be  with 
you  to-day.  At  La  Guerre  ?  But  instead 
of  that,  I  am  rushing  as  fast  as  this  shipload 
of  uninteresting  humanity  will  take  me,  to 
Vienna.  I  shall  be  in  Paris  three  days  and 
will  look  up  your  sketch  and  bring  it  to  you 
soon,  my  dear,  for  I  shan't  be  away  but  a 
few  weeks.  Your  letters,  Katharine,  my 
dear,  are  admirably  diplomatic.  You  prac 
tise  the  axiom  that  language  is  given  to 
conceal  one's  thoughts.  You  know  that  I 
respect  your  views  of  our  friendship,  dear 
est,  and  have  we  not  sworn  to  continue  in 
a  bond  of  comradeship  and  affection  that  will 
rival  Merrimee  and  his  "  Unconnu  "  ?  But, 
dear  heart,  I  cannot  accept  as  sincere  your 
fear  that  a  more  intimate  knowledge  of  me 
will  destroy  your  illusion.  On  verite,  I  am 
not  a  half  bad  fellow  when  one  knows  me 
well.  You  laugh  at  this,  I'm  sure.  Your 
ideas  of  men  are  distorted.  But  enough  of 

44 


this.  Last  night  we  had  quite  a  discussion 
of  your  merits  in  the  Cald well's  stateroom. 
I  say  merits,  for  no  one  present  knew  of 
your  faults,  save  your  humble  servant,  and 
I  love  them.  I  am  as  comfortable  to-day 
as  I  can  be  on  shipboard.  Nothing  vexes 
me  save  people,  and  I  get  away  from  them 
as  often  as  possible.  The  men  on  board 
are  bores  ;  the  women  loud — the  kind  who 
lay  aside  their  good  manners  with  their  cor 
sets.  All  the  latent  vulgarity  in  man  comes 
out  at  sea.  I  will  mail  this  immediately 
we  land. 

JACK. 


45 


Letter  vn. 


47 


YACHT"  REBECCA. 

NEWPORT  HARBOR,  August  ist,  1894. 
DEAR  OLD  JACK  : 

I  am  sitting  alone  on  the  forward  deck 
of  the  "  Rebecca." 

We  are  anchored  in  Newport  harbor 
for  the  festivities  of  the  week.  It  is 
wretchedly  rough  and  the  yacht  is  rocking 
atrociously.  But  I  am  oblivious  to  all 
sensations  save  that  of  anger  and  disgust. 

Disgust  with  men  in  general  and  with 
one  in  particular.  I  wrote  you  that  I  had 
left  New  York  on  board  of  the  "  Rebecca" 

49 


with  Mrs.  Schuyler-Hampton  to  follow  the 
N.  Y.  Y.  C.  cruise.  We  have  some  pleas 
ant  people  on  board,  the  Taylor  girls,  the 
Vanpelts,  Miss  Orth,  who  has  been  so  feted 
on  account  of  her  wonderful  voice,  Bob 
Taylor,  Harry  Higgins,  Count  La  Grange 
and  a  man,  Harvey  Robinson  by  name, 
introduced  as  very  clever,  very  exclusive 
and  bien  difficile,  and  a  friend  of  the  Van- 
pelts. 

At  first  all  seemed  to  be  delightful. 
The  sailing  was  fine,  and  the  yacht,  as  you 
know,  is  a  beauty. 

We  arrived  here  in  time  for  the 
Goelet  Cup  Race,  and  are  to  remain  for  the 
gayeties  of  the  week.  Everyone  has  gone 
ashore  this  afternoon  to  some  garden  fete. 
I  declined  on  the  plea  of  a  headache.  But 
Jack  dear,  I  feel  like  running  away.  I 
hate  and  detest  it  all. 

If  you  were  only  here  to  talk  it  over 
with  me  !  I  am  disgusted  with  myself  that 
I  seem  to  fail  in  my  purpose  to  impress 
upon  other  people  my  sincerity  in  the  ideas 

50 


and  feelings  I  hold  in  regard  to  friendship 
between  men  and  women. 

I  will  tell  you  what  happened  last 
night.  This  Mr.  Robinson  and  I  have 
been  much  together  since  we  left  New 
York.  He  is  most  entertaining,  and  I  was 
neither  cold  nor  indifferent  to  him.  I 
showed  him  plainly  I  enjoyed  his  compan 
ionship.  But  ugh  !  the  selfishness,  the 
conceit,  and  sensuality  of  men  render  them 
impossible  friends  for  a  woman  alone  in 
life  ;  and  because  I  showed  him  openly  that 
I  did  like  him  and  that  I  did  enjoy  talking 
with  him  ;  and  because  I  was  very  plain  and 
frank  in  regard  to  my  views  concerning 
marriage ;  because  I  have  vowed  I  would 
never  be  the  wife  of  any  man,  this — well, 
this  gentleman  they  called  him,  imagined  a 
woman  talking  so,  was  utterly  wanting  in 
moral  calibre.  At  all  events  he  forgot 
himself — forgot  that  he  was  a  guest  as  I  was, 
of  a  woman  and  a  friend,  and  well — well 
dear  Jack,  he  was  insulting.  It  is  all  too 
horrible  to  write  about ;  and  I  know  it  will 

5* 


only  hurt  you  to  have  me  tell  you.  Noth 
ing  will  be  said  about  this  and  Mr.  Robin 
son  and  I  will  meet  to-night  at  dinner  as 
usual.  Oh  !  the  hypocrisy  of  it  all  ! 

Jack  dear,  you  don't  know  what  a 
comfort  your  friendship  is  to  me.  That  we 
understand  each  other  so  well,  that  you 
can  feel  a  deep  strong  friendship  for  me ; 
can  love  me  as  I  love  you  in  the  highest 
and  best  way,  devoid  of  all  thought  of 
companionship  save  that  which  we  now 
enjoy. 

Women  of  rny  nature  should  never 
marry.  I  fancy  I  am  a  product  of  a 
practical  age  and  that  I  have  thrown  senti 
ment  to  the  winds,  save  in  so  much  as  it 
takes  to  be  a  loyal  and  true  friend — a 
friend  such  as  I  feel  I  am  to  you.  Not  a 
weak,  forceless  thing,  but  a  helpful  soul 
that  lives  and  dares  do  all  for  you.  Our 
lives  can  be  so  beautiful  with  this  deep 
friendship  in  them. 

I  am  thankful,  Jack,  that  of  this  great 
burning,  human  spark  it  has  been  given  to 

52 


me  a  little  understanding.  I  live  for  my 
Art  and  ask  of  you,  your  helpful  sympathy 
as  a  good  comrade.  Bah  !  this  kissing  of 
the  throat,  neck  and  eyes ;  this  sighing  for 
something  we  know  not  what ;  this  ah ! 
nonsense !  That  is  what  John  the  butler- 
man  and  Mary  the  parlor-maid  indulge  in. 
But  Art,  my  dear  old  Jack,  lifts  us  to  a  freer 
breath  ;  to  a  larger  air.  It  lives  in  honest 
laughter  and  sacred  grief.  Intelligence  is 
its  interpreter. 

I  must  endure  a  life  with  these  people 
until  Monday.  How  I  hate  these  men ! 
They  are  all  alike.  The  only  man  with 
any  brains  at  all  is  this  beast,  Harvey  Rob 
inson.  The  man  who  sits  next  to  me  at 
the  table  is  a  loquacious  idiot.  I  feel  as 
Disraeli  expressed  it  when  he  had  an  un 
desirable  dinner  partner  who  would  talk, 
"  I  had  not  even  the  consolation  of  a  silent 
stuff." 

The  steward  has  just  brought  me  a 
half  pint  of  your  favorite  Moet  et  Chandon 
and  some  olives.  I  drink  to  you,  my 

53 


lord.  Surely  a  bit  of  a  golden  liquid  at 
sea  gives  one  a  feeling  of  peace  which  some 
body  said  the  consolation  of  religion  fails 
to  bring — ;"the  peace  which  passeth  all 
understanding." 

Besides  these  people,  my  dear  Jack, 
your  halo  enlarges  and  I  wish  I  could 
proclaim  to  them  that  the  dearest  fellow  in 
the  world,  Jack  Harding,  is  so  far  above 
them,  I  despise  them  all. 

Write  to  me  at  Lennox  where  I  shall 
be  in  two  weeks  with  the  Lawrences, 
sketching.  Au  revoir,  old  chum.  I  hope 
this  long  scrawl  will  not  bore  you,  but  I 
had  to  tell  someone  just  how  I  felt. 

Yours, 

KATHARINE. 

P.  S. — I  am  making  a  sketch  of  the 
harbor  from  Ochre  Point.  How  would 
you  like  it  in  that  dear  old  den  of  yours  ? 

I  saw  this  little  verse  to-day,  do  you 
know  it  ? 


54 


FOUR-LEAVED  CLOVER. 

I  know  a  place  where  the  sun  is  like  gold, 
And  the  cherry  blooms  burst  with  snow  ; 

And  down  underneath  is  the  loveliest  nook, 
Where  the  four-leaved  clovers  grow. 

One  leaf  is  for  hope,  and  one  is  for  faith, 

And  one  is  for  love,  you  know, 
And  God  put  another  one  for  luck — 

If  you  search  you  will  find  where  they  grow. 

But  you  must  have  hope  and  you  must  have  faith, 
You  must  love  and  be  strong — and  so, 

If  you  work,  if  you  wait,  you  will  find  the  place 
Where  the  four-leaved  clovers  grow. 


Letter  viu. 


57 


HOTEL    D'lfeNA 

26  et  2 8,  Avenue  d'llna 
PABIS 


PARIS,  August  2ist,  1894. 
DEAR  KATHARINE  : 

You  know  the  old  adage,  "  To  talk  of 
love  is  to  make  love,"  and  knowing  your 
propensity  for  talking  on  the  subject  and 
giving  your  views  of  it,  I  am  half  inclined 
to  sympathize  with  the  poor  devil  you  "sat 
on"  at  Newport.  Now  I  know  you  will 
hate  me  for  writing  this,  but  you  must 
remember,  my  dear  little  woman,  that  all 
men  do  not  think  as  you  do.  And  then 
you  know  you  had  not  trained  him  as  you 
have  trained  me.  With  your  figure  and 
those  splendid  blue  eyes  I  admire,  you 

59 


should  be  careful.  No,  Katharine,  on 
thinking  it  over  I  don't  believe  I  have  the 
strength  of  character  to  blame  that  weak 
idiot  for  losing  his  head. 

Paris  is  dull ;  I  want  to  get  away  as 
soon  as  possible.  I  am  in  a  frightfully 
bad  humor  to-night.  I  hate  to  think  of  your 

being  on  that  d yacht.     I  sometimes 

half  wish  you  were  red-haired  and  freckled, 
and  maybe  some  of  those  beastly  men 
would  not  make  such  fools  of  themselves. 
I  would  love  you  just  the  same.  In  fact  I 
think,  my  dear,  I  would  adore  every  tiny 
little  freckle.  I  am  off  for  Vienna  to-night. 
Yours, 

JACK. 


Letter  ix. 


61 


HUNTING  CLUB 


HUNT,  September  loth. 
JACK  DEAR  : 

Je  vous  fais  mes  compliments.  You 
fraud  !  The  idea  of  your  telling  me  you 
found  Paris  dull !  Think  of  John  Harding, 
journalist,  lawyer  and  artist,  finding  the 
Boulevardes  dull !  I  am  here  on  the 
Masons'  coach.  Now  I,  cher  ami,  do  find 
this  dull  and  I  see  no  reasonable  reason 
why  I  should  find  it  so.  A  hunt  breakfast. 

63 


All  the  world  is  here.  It  is  gay  and  festive, 
but  the  bottom  crust  of  my  pie  seems 
gone.  I  can  see  you  smile.  You  silly 
conceited  fellow,  and  you  flatter  yourself 
you  know  why  I  am  looking  through  these 
"blue  glasses."  I  hope  you  appreciate  the 
honesty  of  this  statement  and  can  read 
between  the  lines.  If  your  conceit  will 
carry  you  further  you  will  know  whom  it 
is  I  miss. 

Yours, 

KATHARINE. 


Letter  x. 


CLUB 


PHILADELPHIA,  October  8th,  94. 

Will  it  please  your  royal  highness  to 
take  dejeuner  a  la  fourchette  with  me  at 
one  at  the  Bellevue  ? 

Eduard  shall  have  ready  a  flowing 
bowl  of  your  Moet  et  Chandon  and  Pom- 
mard.  Don't  keep  me  waiting,  Katharine 
dear.  It  has  been  so  long. 

Your  impatient 

JACK. 


67 


Letter  xi. 


PHILADELPHIA,  October  8th,  94. 

CHER  AMI  : 

Of  course  the  afternoon  is  yours.  I 
am  beside  myself  with  joy  at  the  thought 
of  seeing  you.  We  have  had  too  much 
pen,  ink  and  paper  friendship.  I  want  to 
see  you,  but  come  to  the  studio.  Send 
lunch  there.  We  can  be  alone,  and  you 
can  sit  by  my  fire  and  smoke  and  tell  me  all 
about  yourself.  And  what  you  leave  out, 
my  reverend  Jack,  I  will  read  in  the  flames. 

KATHARINE. 

P.  S. — You  must  see  my  sketch  of 
the  Harbor.  It  is  almost  finished  and  I 
want  your  opinion. 

7i 


Letter  xn. 


73 


PHILADELPHIA.  October  i5th,  1894. 

Et  tu  Brute.  And  has  my  friend 
turned  traitor  ?  My  honest  hero,  my  friend 
Jack.  Is  he  but  clay  ? 

Is  he  just  like  other  men  ?  I  have 
refused  to  see  you  and  have  made  no 
answer  when  I  knew  it  was  your  knock  at 
the  studio  door.  Your  violets  wilt  on  the 
rug.  I  can't  pick  them  up.  I  can't  touch 
them.  The  odor  comes  up  from  their 
dying  petals  as  a  ghost  of  something  gone. 
Something  dead  in  my  life. 

You  have  betrayed  my  trust.  When 
I  gave  you  my  honest,  deep  and  loyal 

75 


friendship  you  swore  to  me,  putting  your 
hands  in  mine,  we  would  be  true  and  loyal 
comrades.  We  would  seek  together  the 
higher  truths  and  by  each  other's  help, 
make  our  lives  better  and  fuller. 

You  knew  my  views  on  the  subject. 
You  knew  I  had  said  I  could  love  no  man 
any  other  way  ;  that  a  deep,  lasting  Platonic 
friendship  was  all  I  could  give.  Ah,  Jack, 
that  any  lower  feeling  comes  to  you  pains 
me. 

When  you  held  me  in  your  arms  that 
awful  day  you  returned,  and  kissed  me  in 
that  passionate  way,  your  eyes  so  strangely 
wild,  I  almost  hated  you.  A  shudder  of 
repulsion  ran  over  me  and  for  a  moment  I 
cursed  the  fate  that  brought  you  into  my 
life.  I  could  have  borne  it  better  had  you 
grown  tired  of  me,  than  that  you  should 
have  spoken  as  you  did.  I  almost  believe 
that  until  to-day  I  had  no  sorrow.  It  was 
anger  before,  but  now  an  intense  desire  that 
you  may  remain  true  to  yourself  is  all  I 
feel. 

76 


You  asked  me  to  love  you  as  other 
women  love  men ;  to  marry  you.  Ah 
Jack !  All  men  are  alike,  holding  this 
idea  of  possession.  They  are  not  content 
in  possessing  a  woman's  heart  and  friend 
ship.  They  ask  for  her  body  and  soul. 
Until  man  and  woman  can  remain  good 
comrades  and  intellectual  friends  as  man  and 
man  are,  woman  can  never  hold  the  place 
meant  for  her  in  this  world.  Dear  Jack,  for 
get  your  passion  of  the  other  day.  Tell  me 
it  was  the  fumes  of  wine  in  your  head.  Come 
back  and  be  my  honest,  loyal  friend  with  no 
thought  of  else.  In  me  you  will  find  an 
honest  helpmate,  your  feminine  comrade. 

Sentimentality  between  good  fellows 
is  foolish.  Let  me  find  in  you  a  noble, 
honest  man  who  will  think  less  of  my  blue 
eyes  than  of  my  sincere  heart. 

No,  Jack,  I  am  not  a  cold  woman. 
But  I  am  a  woman  without  passion  of  the 
kind  men  desire.  My  passion  is  art,  and  I 
so  love  it  that  it  is  the  only  thing  in  life 
can  make  me  thrill  with  emotion. 

77 


You  are  better  than  other  men,  Jack. 
You  did  not  mean  what  you  said,  I  know. 
Come  help  me  to  lead  a  better  life,  and 
together  we  can  soar  above  the  sensual 
world  and  worship  the  best  there  is. 

If  you  will  come  and  be  my  friend 
again  under  these  terms,  respecting  my 
views,  come  to  the  studio  to-day.  I  will 
wait  until  four,  but  if  you  cannot  come — 
but  bah  !  I  won't  allow  myself  to  think  of 
that.  The  other  afternoon  was  only  a 
horrible  nightmare ;  a  wretched  dream.  I 
implore  you  let  us  be  happy  as  we  were 
and  let — let  the  flesh  be  in  abeyance.  Of 
it  are  created  all  of  the  woes,  miseries  and 
jealousies  that  ruin  happiness.  Kill  it,  stifle 
it  and  forgive  that  in  me  which  tempts  it. 
Remember,  nothing  like  that  must  ever 
come  into  our  friendship  again.  Meet  me 
to-day  as  though  nothing  had  happened. 
Dear  Jack,  believe  me  in  all  sincerity, 
Your  Friend, 

KATHARINE. 


Letter  xm. 


79 


THE  UNION  LEAGUE 
PHILADELPHIA 


October  i6th,  94. 

Forgive  me,  Katharine.     Let  me  try 
again.     I  was  a  brute. 

JACK. 


si 


Letter  xiv. 


November  8th,  1894. 
DEAR  JACK  : 

"  To  see  and  to  be  seen  "  is  the  motto 
of  the  week,  especially,  dwelling  on  the  lat 
ter  part  of  the  phrase.  "  When  society  calls 
the  Horse  Show  roll,  you  know  the  penalty 
of  being  left  out."  I  am  here  with  the 
Schuyler-Hamptons.  Mrs.  S —  wants  me 
to  ask  you  to  join  us  to-morrow  evening 
at  dinner.  Jack  Cochran  is  here  with  his 
cobs  and  his  money-bags.  The  combina 
tion,  in  spite  of  his  atrocious  plaid  trousers 
and  awful  lisp,  will  probably  be  an  open 
sesame  at  that  august  portal  —  Society. 
Poor  fellow,  he  looks  so  frightened  all  the 

85 


time  ;  so  afraid  he  may  commit  the  unpar 
donable  sin  of  being  agreeable  to  some 
nice  people  he  likes  who  are  "not  in  it,"  or 
being  cold  to  some  one  he  detests  who  "is 
in  it."  He  almost  cut  that  homely  and 
freckled  little  Miss  Webb,  until  he  saw  her 
in  the  box  with  the  Hoffmans,  and  now  the 
ardor  that  shines  in  his  mottled  gray  eyes 
is  pathetic.  Mon  Dieu  !  what  a  life  ! 

We  will  expect  you  to  dine  at  seven. 

KATHARINE. 


86 


Letter  xv. 


November  nth,  1894. 
MON  AMI  : 

You  actually  saw  me  last  night  in  the 
box  and  would  not  come  to  speak  to  me  ? 
How  dare  you  tell  me  of  it  ?  Of  course 
I  wore  your  violets.  They  are  so  fresh 
and  sweet  this  morning,  but  they  feel  just 
as  resentful  of  your  neglect  as  I  do.  I 
return  home  Saturday.  Come  in  Sunday 
to  tea.  Come  and  have  a  nice  confidential 
chat  by  the  fire. 

Dear,  I  did  enjoy  your  violets,  but 
don't  write  me  notes  like  that.  Something 
is  creeping  into  our  friendship  that  will  eat 

89 


away  its  best  flavor,  and  all  the  nonsense 
you  write  is  so  silly  and  unworthy  of  you. 
Don't  be  angry.  Will  see  you  Sunday. 

KATHARINE. 

P.  S. — The  Floyds  dined  us  yester 
day.  Methinks  that  silly  little  cousin  of 
theirs  is  quite  epris  with  my  Jack.  Is  it 
so? 


90 


Letter  xvi. 


THE  RACQUET  CLUB. 

923  WALNUT  STREET. 

November  I4th,  1894. 
MY  DARLING  KATHARINE  : 

Will  be  up  Sunday  at  5.30.  Will  ex 
plain  why  I  did  not  speak  to  you  in  New 
York.  Have  much  to  tell  you.  For  God's 
sake  listen  to  me  kindly.  I  am  miserable, 
and  only  you  can  help  me. 
Your  adoring 

JACK. 


93 


Letter  xvn. 


95 


PHILADELPHIA,  January  5th,  1895. 

DEAR  JACK  : 

It  is  a  long  time  since  we  met,  long  as 
we  have  been  in  the  habit  of  measuring 
time ;  nearly  a  month.  I  feared  it  would 
be  so.  And  yet,  Jack,  you  write  these  brutal 
letters  here  before  me,  demanding  a  love 
and  passion  you  know  I  cannot  give  you. 
It  is  all  over  then — ended.  Our  sweet 
friendship,  our  camaraderie;  the  long  walks; 
the  cosy  evenings  at  my  fireside  ;  the  petites 
soupers ;  the  long  working  days  in  the 

97 


studio,  with  the  cosy  little  lunches  we 
cooked  on  the  chafing-dish  and  served  on 
the  old  worn  divan,  you,  Turk  fashion  at 
one  end,  and  I  at  the  other.  Oh  !  I  can  see 
you  now,  Jack  !  You  looked  so  funny  in 
my  working  apron  as  you  stirred  those 
tough  chicken  livers,  and  struggled  with 
our  only  pint  of  Apollinaris  with  your  pen 
knife.  And  do  you  remember  the  rainy 
day  I  put  "  Out  of  Town  "  on  my  door, 
and  putting  on  those  old  Persian  sandals 
we  crept  about  noiselessly  and  talked  in 
whispers  all  afternoon  for  fear  of  Mother 
Grundy.  That  was  the  day,  dear,  we 
lunched  sumptuously  on  quail  and  cham 
pagne.  And  then  at  dessert  took  all  those 
soft  oranges  we  could  not  eat  and  stuck 
them  on  the  easel  points  and  in  the  palms 
and  called  it  our  "  orange  grove." 

Then  that  hot  Sunday.  All  the  world 
out  of  town,  and  we  two  jaunting  along  the 
shady  roads  with  that  wretchedly  slow  old 
horse.  Do  you  remember  how  terribly 
hungry  we  were  at  noon ;  and  the  old 
98 


White  Horse  Inn  ;  the  loquacious  hand 
maid  ;  the  sick  people  ;  the  consumptive  one 
in  the  room  near  the  piazza ;  the  typhoid 
fever  patient,  and  heaven  knows  how  many 
others  ;  the  dark,  musty  "  best  room  "  with 
its  hair-cloth  sofa,  its  wax  flowers,  and  tat 
ting  "  tidies,"  the  patchwork  pillow,  the  pho 
tograph  album,  and  the  worsted  motto  over 
the  door  ?  Do  you  remember  the  wretched 
cold  meat,  the  milk  and  the  thick  slices  of 
bread  and  those  little  onions  I  would  insist 
upon  eating  ?  Dear,  life  such  as  this  was 
very  sweet  to  me  then.  Those  few  stolen 
hours  among  the  woods  and  the  trees.  Do 
you  recall  what  Holmes  says  of  the  trees, 
"  Human  lovers  holding  their  green  sun 
shade  over  their  head  "  ? 

Then  the  day — but,  ah  !  it  is  all  over, 
all  those  sweet  days  of  comradeship,  and 
all  because  you  will  be  a  brute.  Because 
you  will  assert  yourself  as  the  every-day 
commonplace  man  and  demand  possession 
of  something  I  cannot  give  you.  It  was  the 
animal  in  you,  not  the  man  that  wrote  that 

99 


letter.  You  know  my  views.  You  know 
I  give  you  the  best  I  am  capable  of.  I  can 
never  be  your  wife.  I  am  to  you  now  what 
few  women  are  to  their  husbands ;  your 
companion.  You  accuse  me  of  being  cold  ; 
of  having  no  passion.  You  wrong  me 
there.  True  I  have  not,  thank  God,  the 
passion  you  mean,  the  kind  one  reads  of 
in  silly  French  novels,  which  soon  fizzles 
out  and  proves  itself  only  to  have  been  the 
sensual  in  us. 

No,  I  have  none  of  that.  The  kind  of  a 
feeling  John  has  for  Polly,  the  scullery  maid, 
when  he  watches  her  pretty  little  ankles  as 
she  trips  down  the  lodge  steps. 

I  have  passion,  a  great  deal  of  it,  and 
I  long  for  it  in  you.  But  the  passion  I  want 
in  you  was  in  Horatio  Nelson's  heart  when 
he  fell  at  Trafalgar ;  in  Joan  of  Arc's  heart 
when  she  rode  into  Rheims  ;  in  Raphael's 
heart  when  he  painted  the  face  of  the  Sis- 
tine  Madonna ;  Martin  Luther  felt  it  when 
he  cried  out  against  the  profanity  of  the 
Church.  The  passion  I  want  in  you  is  in 


the  young  student's  heart  when  he  hears 
the  iron  gate  clang  behind  him  and  raises  his 
head  to  receive  the  benediction  of  the  Holy 
fathers.  The  passion  I  mean  and  the  kind 
I  have  dreamed  you  and  I  could  feel  to 
gether,  is  the  kind  that  helps  to  make  the 
world's  great  history.  It  is  in  the  heart  of 
all  great  developments  and  theories.  It 
has  nothing  of  the  animal  in  it.  You  love 
me,  you  say,  and  therefore  you  ask  me  impa 
tiently  why  can't  we  marry  and  try  this 
thing  called  life,  together  ? 

Ah,  Jack  !  I  once  thought  it  could  be 
together ;  not  in  the  way  you  mean,  but  I 
thought  that  the  best  of  each  of  us  could 
help  the  other  to  a  great  and  noble  work. 
You  have  opened  my  eyes.  You  do  not 
understand  me,  and  I — I  cannot  feel  as  you 
do.  No,  our  lives  cannot  be  together. 
There  is  something  in  me  you  cannot  sat 
isfy.  All  my  feelings  would  be  foreign  to 
you.  There  is  something  in  me  you  hurt 
when  you  wrote  as  you  did ;  something 
larger  than  love,  for  it  is  the  basis  of  all  love  ; 


more  than  wisdom,  for  it  is  knowledge  ; 
better  than  good,  for  it  contains  evil  also  : 
Shakespeare  had  it  and  my  kitchen  maid 
may  have  it.  Its  horizon  lifts  to  a  freer 
breath  and  a  purer  air.  To  find  it,  and  to 
feel  it,  sets  one's  blood  flowing  toward  the 
best,  and  toward  the  meanest  of  God's 
creatures.  It  is  a  part  of  everything  in  my 
life.  And  this  you  hurt  and  bruise — the 
Artistic  Spirit ! 

Fah  !  Should  we  marry,  I  feel  sure 
that  I  would  hate  you  that  you  could  ever 
make  me  experience  a  moment  when  I  was 
blind  to  all  that  was  best  on  earth.  Oh  ! 
Jack,  it  makes  me  shudder  to  read  your 
letter. 

There  are  many  women  of  the  kind 
you  want,  willing  enough  to  walk  along 
the  beaten  track  with  you.  Why  should  I 
give  up  all  my  ambitions,  all  my  hopes,  my 
longings,  and  wild  dreams  and  the  work 
that  will  come  ?  An  old  lady  once  said  to 
me,  "  My  dear,  I  hope  you  will  never  know 
what  it  is  to  have  your  heart  awakened  to 


anything  but  the  greatest  and  highest  work. 
Love  your  art,  love  your  ambition,  but 
never  let  your  frail  woman's  heart  feel  the 
hot,  seething,  and  turbulent  sea  of  love  for 
a  man.  It  is  this  love  that  brings  rapture, 
it  is  this  love  that  brings  misery.  Your 
lover  will  surely  grow  tired  of  you.  This 
you  won't  believe  at  first,  but  it  is  true,  and 
the  curse  will  be  that  you  will  remember 
what  has  been." 

By  and  by,  Jack,  the  world  will  grow 
tired  of  me,  of  my  little  fame,  of  my  work. 
Some  other  woman  will  be  the  lion  then. 
They  will  tear  me  down  from  my  little  ped 
estal  and  put  her  in  my  place.  By  and 
by,  I  will  grow  old,  and  my  beauty  will 
fade,  little  by  little,  a  wrinkle  and  then  a 
gray  hair,  a  fulness  of  the  hips,  a  roundness 
of  the  shoulders,  a  dullness  in  my  gray  eyes, 
and  you  will  watch  it  go.  You  will  coldly 
and  critically  count  each  charm  as  it  leaves 
me.  And  then  when  your  doll  is  broken 
you  will  see  with  your  eyes,  with  your  sen 
sual  sight  that  it  was  only  stuffed  with 

103 


sawdust  after  all.  Ah,  Jack!  It  is  what  you 
would  call  the  sawdust  that  I  want  you  to 
care  for  ;  not  my  eyes,  my  hair,  my  slender 
waist.  These  all  go.  They  are  not  my 
self,  my  best  self,  which  is  striving  to  lift  me 
out  of  the  gross  and  filth  of  this  life,  to  be 
a  part  of  that  which  is  most  beautiful.  We 
are  so  different,  you  and  I.  A  year  ago 
we  did  not  see  it.  I  thought  then  our 
friendship  would  last  always.  I  thought 
then  we  had  solved  the  problem  that  Plato 
tells  us  is  the  best  life.  I  was  so  happy. 
But  life  is  not  all  dreams.  My  little  dream 
is  over.  I  have  awakened,  and  our  story 
is  finished. 

Go  !  Marry  some  little  woman  who 
does  not  dream  or  think  of  these  things. 
She  will  be  the  wife  for  you.  She  will  an 
swer  your  caresses  with  a  passion  I  cannot 
feign.  She  will  not  mind  the  brute  in  you. 
She  has  been  brought  up  to  expect  it.  And 
by  and  by,  when  her  beauty  fades,  well — 
there  are  other  girls,  pretty  enough  to  take 
her  place,  for  women  will  ever  be  fools  that 
104 


way.  I  will  go  on  with  my  work  and  my 
Art  alone.  Do  not  attempt  to  see  me 
again.  You  cannot  alter  my  views  or  make 
me  less  cold,  as  you  term  it.  Go  from  my 
life  and  let  me  go  out  of  yours.  There  is 
nothing  more  I  can  say,  and  nothing  more 
I  will  say.  It  is  over. 

Sincerely  yours, 

KATHARINE. 


105 


Letter  xvm 


107 


THE  UNION   LEAGUE 
PHILADELPH i A 


PHILADELPHIA,  January  9th,  1894. 
MY  DEAR  KATHARINE  : 

Nobody  but  women  know  how  to  be 
so  refinedly  cruel.  Nobody  but  a  woman 
can  use  a  pen  so  poisoned  with  clever  satire 
and  keen  wit.  I  will  not  bother  you  again, 
Katharine.  I  will  go  out  of  your  life. 
You  can  never  go  out  of  mine.  Though 
your  name  may  never  pass  my  lips  again, 
your  image  will  ever  be  on  my  heart.  If 
I  should  curse  you,  it  would  be  the  hope 
that  the  day  would  come  when  your  real 
woman's  heart  would  awaken  and  long  for 
love,  and  your  mother-nature  grieve  for  the 
cry  of  a  little  child,  only  to  find  the  door 
closed  upon  you.  But  I  do  not  say  this, 
109 


dear.  I  wish  you  from  the  bottom  of  my 
heart  all  that  will  make  you  happy,  sweet 
heart  I  am  going  to  keep  that  little 
miniature  you  gave  me.  I  want  to  have  it 
with  me  always.  It  may  prove  my  guar 
dian  angel  and  keep  me  straighter  than  my 
weak  nature  otherwise  might.  A  senti 
mental  old  fool,  you  think  me,  I  know.  But 
with  that  in  my  pocket  it  will  be  easier  to 
force  back  the  tears  and  keep  down  the 
sobs  a  man  feels  weak  in  showing. 

God  bless  you,  my  darling.    You  are  too 
good  for  me,  and  I  should  have  known  it. 

JACK. 


no 


I    WILL   GO   OUT   OK   YOUR    LIFE." 


"  Times  "  Clipping. 


Tete-a-Tete 


Mr.  John  Harding,  the  well  known  art  critic 
and  journalist,  sails  to-day  by  the  American 
Line  Steamship  "  St.  Louis"  for  Southampton. 
Mr.  Harding  will  remain  some  time  in  London, 
and  then  accompanies  a  party  of  Englishmen 
to  India  in  the  interest  of  a  railroad  syndicate. 
Mr.  Harding  will  continue  his  journalistic  life 
by  sending  letters  from  time  to  time  from 
Bombay  and  the  interior.  His  studio  has  been 
sold,  but  we  have  promise  of  many  treasures 
from  his  versatile  brush,  as  he  will  act  as 
artist  for  the  English  syndicate.  Mr.  Harding 
will  be  greatly  missed  from  the  world  of  society 
where  his  bonhomie  and  Bohemian  hospitality 
have  made  him  a  great  favorite. 
*  *  * 

Miss  Katharine  Pemberton,  the  well-known 
artist  and  sculptor,  has  issued  invitations  to  a 
series  of  "  At  Homes"  at  her  new  studio  on 
Broad  street.  Miss  Pemberton's  studio  is  one 
of  the  most  artistic  in  the  city,  containing  a 
u  j  great  variety  of  curious  and  interesting  things, 
?  I  picked  up  during  her  studies  abroad.  "VVon- 
^i  dt-rful  bits  of  old  bronze  and  carved  oaken 
chests ;  faded  tapestries  that  could  tell  weird 
stories ;  old  Italian  daggers  and  knives  with 
curiously  wrought  handles;  elaborately  carved 
mugs  and  steins.  It  is  decidedly  a  nook  rich 
in  attractions,  and  carries  the  fancy  back  to  the 
romance  of  bv-gone  days.  Altogether  these 

for 
ing 


"  At  Homes,"  will  prove  very  popular, 
society  is  always  on  the  lookout  for  somethi 
out-of-the-cominon,  and  invitations  for  a  peep 
into  this  smart  Bohemia  will  be  eagerly  sought 
for.  Miss  Pemberton  will  be  assisted  in  re- 
ceiving  by  her  mother,  Mrs.  Cadwallader- 
Smith  and  Mrs.  Biddle-Mason.  Miss  Pember- 
ton  has  announced  her  intention  of  devoting 
her  life  to  art,  and  will,  during  the  winter, 
give  some  talks  on  Modern  Sculpture  in  the 
Hotel  Stratford  parlors. 


Letter  xix. 


PHILADELPHIA, 
January  2<d,  1898. 


MY  DEAR  ISABEL  : 


I  am  in  my  dear  old  studio,  sitting 
with  my  legs  crossed  on  a  rug  on  the  floor, 
with  books,  papers,  plaster  casts  and  all 
kinds  of  rubbish  around  me  in  confusion. 
But  in  the  midst  of  it  I  must  have  a  talk  with 
you,  my  dearest  Isabel.  Ah,  Isabel !  I  am 
off  for  London  Saturday.  I  can't  help  it. 
I  don't  want  to  help  it.  I  am  going  to  meet 
Jack.  He  returns  from  India  this  week, 
117 


and — well — I  know  now  there  is  nothing 
else  worth  living  for  in  life  ;  nothing  worth 
striving  for,  save  Love.  It  is  everything  to 
me.  Three  years,  three  long  miserable  years, 
pride  kept  the  smile  on  my  face  the  world 
saw,  but  behind  it  was  an  aching  heart.  A 
miserable,  empty  heart  calling  for  Jack.  I 
have  written  him  a  few  lines.  He  will  under 
stand.  I  shall  send  them  to  his  bankers  in 
London  where  I  have  found  he  will  be  this 
week.  I  had  a  letter  from  him  a  year  ago 
from  Poonah,  the  only  letter  he  has  written 
me  since  he  left.  I  never  answered  it.  But 
I  am  going  to  him  now.  Do  you  think  me 
very  foolish  ?  I  know  I  am  very  happy.  I 
know  now  what  love  is.  I  know  now  my 
mistake ;  how  I  kept  from  my  life  all  that 
was  best.  The  world  calls  me  cold  !  Ah, 
Isabel !  I  have  lain  awake  nights,  torn  with 
a  yearning  and  anguish,  only  one  dear 
hand,  one  touch,  could  soothe.  I  have 
kissed  with  a  passion  I  never  knew  I  could 
feel,  the  torn  blue  apron  dear  old  Jack  used 
to  wear  when  we  would  cook  our  little 
1x8 


Bohemian  lunches  in  here.  Memories  !  This 
room  is  so  full  of  them  it  stifles  me ;  it 
chokes  me.  There  in  that  corner,  the  worn 
divan  where  Jack  used  to  lounge  and  smoke 
his  cigarettes,  while  I  would  work  hard 
away  at  modelling.  That  chubby  Cupid  he 
always  laughed  at,  and  those  plaster  hands, 
feet  and  noses  for  my  class,  casts  of  all 
kinds,  finished  and  unfinished,  each  and  all 
hold  a  memory  dear  to  me.  Ah  !  for 
those  days  again  !  I  long  for  them.  Yet 
not  just  the  same  do  I  want  them.  No, 
something  fuller,  something  deeper.  I 
was  not  a  woman  then.  I  was  a  thing  of 
head  and  mind.  A  thing  so  selfish,  so 
cold.  Now,  thank  God,  I  am  a  woman. 
A  woman  with  a  soul  and  a  heart,  for  whom 
life  holds  so  much.  Jack  loved  me  with  a 
love  so  deep,  so  tender,  so  strong,  and  so 
true.  He  once  kissed  me.  Ah  !  God  !  that 
anything  could  be  so  sweet. 

Has  your  pulse  ever  throbbed  as  mine 
throbs  now  ?     Has  your  heart  ever  felt  it 
would  break  forth  from  its  prison  walls, 
119 


unless  pressed  hard  against  the  breast  you 
long  for  and  love  ?  Has  your  blood  ever 
surged  through  your  veins  as  mine  surges 
now? 

I  want  to  give  myself,  my  life,  my 
body  and  my  soul  to  Jack.  To  be  his  wife. 
The  mother  of  his  children.  The  pain  and 
agony  of  child-birth  must,  after  all,  be  a 
delicious  pain  to  a  woman  bringing  into  the 
world  the  child  of  a  man  she  loves.  And 
then  to  feel  that  innocent  one's  little  fingers, 
his  little  mouth  at  your  breast,  to  feel  the 
hurt,  to  think  this  little  being  is  a  part  of 
you  and  of  him. 

All  the  strings  of  my  heart  vibrate  at 
the  mention  of  his  name.  They  sing  a  song 
all  day  long.  I  think  if  I  found  he  did  not 
love  me,  one  of  these  strings  would  snap 
and  break  with  a  groan  of  pain  that  would 
kill  me.  But  it  won't  be.  It  can't  be. 
Dear,  big,  careless  Jack  loves  me,  I  know. 
I  feel  it.  And  I — I  turned  away  from  the 
sweetest  joys  of  life  three  years  ago.  Ah  ! 
I  can  bear  it  no  longer.  The  world  holds 


but  one  thought,  one  dream  for  me.  All 
day  and  all  night  I  see  his  face.  I  lie  awake 
in  the  dark  with  the  starlight  shining  in  my 
room  and  live  over  every  blessed  moment 
we  have  been  together.  Do  you  think 
I  am  weak  ?  No,  dear,  I  am  strong — 
strong  in  my  great  love.  I  fought  against 
it.  Oh,  believe  me,  I  despised  myself  at 
first,  but  it  came  over  me  like  a  flood  that 
would  not  be  stopped,  and  I  yielded. 
Yielded  to  find  myself  a  better  woman  for 
so  doing.  Dear  Isabel,  do  you  know  half 
what  I  feel  ?  You  will  never  know,  for  you 
never  knew  what  it  was  to  have  been  starved 
for  love.  Once  I  modeled  Jack's  arm,  and 
for  fun  we  finished  it  and  mounted  it  on  a 
scarlet  cloth  on  my  wall.  I  can  let  no  one 
see  it  now.  It  seems  too  sacred.  I  keep  it 
covered,  and  last  night  I  kissed  it,  ah,  so 
gently  ;  I  felt  almost  that  it  would  come  to 
life  at  my  touch.  I  sail  on  Saturday.  I  am 
sure  the  steamer  will  actually  seem  to  creep. 
Jack  will  be  in  London  in  a  few  days.  My 
letter  will  reach  there  only  two  days  before 

121 


I  do.  I  shall  not  send  for  him.  I  sent 
him  away,  so  now  I  go  to  him.  You  would 
laugh  at  the  foolish  things  I  do.  I  want  to 
seem  to  him  just  as  I  was  when  he  left  me. 
My  hair  he  always  liked.  He  said  it  was 
gold  to  him.  It  has  been  getting  a  bit 
dark,  so,  my  dear  (don't  ever  breathe  this 
to  any  one)  I  am  washing  it  in  soda.  And 
then  my  gown.  It  came  home  to-day.  The 
gown  I  shall  wear  when  I  meet  him.  He 
always  liked  me  in  brown.  Did  you  ever 
see  this  little  poem  ?  I  picked  it  up  to 
day.  I  don't  know  who  wrote  it. 

WEAR  YIN'  FOR  YOU. 

"Just  a-wearyin'  for  you, 
All  the  time  a-feelin'  blue 
Waitin'  for  you,  wonderin'  when 
You'll  be  comin'  home  agen  ; 
Restles?,  don't  know  what  to  do, 
Jest  a-wearyin'  for  you. 

' '  Keep  a  mopin'  day  by  day, 
Dull,  in  everybody's  way  ; 
Folks  they  smile  and  pass  along 
Wonderin'  what  on  earth  is  wrong ; 
'Twouldn't  help  'em  if  they  knew  ; 
Jest  a-wearyin'  for  you. 

122 


<5  Room's  so  lonesome  with  your  chair 
Empty  by  the  fireplace  there, 
Jest  can't  stand  the  sight  of  it ; 
Go  out  doors  an'  roam  a  bit, 
But  the  woods  is  lonesome  too 
Jest  a-wearyin'  for  you. 

<:  Comes  the  wind  with  soft  caress 
Like  the  rustlin'  of  your  dress; 
Blossoms  falling  to  the  ground 
Softly  like  your  footsteps  bound  , 
Violets,  like  your  eyes  so  blue, 
Jest  a-wearyin'  for  you. 

' '  Mornin'  comes,  the  birds  awake 
(Use  to  sing  so  for  your  sake), 
But  there's  sadness  in  the  notes 
That  comes  thrillin'  from  their  throats  ; 
Seem  to  feel  your  absence  too 
Jest  a-wearyin'  for  you. 

' '  Evenin'  falls,  I  miss  you  more 
When  the  dark  glooms  in  the  door  ; 
Seems  jest  like  you  orter  be 
There  to  open  it  for  me  ; 
Latch  goes  tinklin',  thrills  me  through, 
Jest  a-wearyin'  for  you. 

"  Jest  a-wearyin'  for  you, 
All  the  time  a-feelin'  blue, 
Wishin'  for  you  wonderin'  when 
You'll  be  home  agen  ; 
Restless,  don't  know  what  to  do, 
Jest  a-wearyin'  for  you." 

123 


I  had  a  dream  last  night.  It  seemed 
so  real  to  me.  Far  off,  perhaps  on  the  bor 
der  of  the  Forest  of  Arden  when  the  world 
was  peopled  with  gods  of  a  noble  race,  I 
was  wandering  in  a  beautiful  glade.  I  had 
been  modeling  all  day,  working  hard  with 
my  chisel  on  a  bust  of  that  great  god  Pan 
which  had  been  ordered  by  the  Forest  gods 
for  their  fete  day  early  the  next  moon.  I 
had  worked  hard  and  was  tired,  and  as  the 
sun  lowered  into  a  delicious  red  crescent  I 
wandered  along  the  river  bank  in  the 
pride  of  my  free  strength.  Suddenly  I 
came  across  a  tall  slender  maiden  with 
golden  hair  and  wonderful  deep-blue  eyes. 
Whence  comes  this  maiden  ?  Never  be 
fore  in  all  my  wanderings  had  I  met  a 
woman  in  this  lovely  glade.  She  was 
leaning  against  a  lily  of  gigantic  size  and 
whose  petals  were  not  fairer  than  her 
face. 

She  raised  her  head  as  I  came  near 
and  looked  into  my  eyes  with  a  fearless 
gaze,  then  laughed  a  low,  happy  laugh. 
124 


"  What  dost  thou  here,  maiden,  in  idle 
ness  ?  What  makest  thy  laugh  so  light 
and  free?  Dost  have  no  cares,  no  deep 
thought,  no  great  work  to  do  ?"  I  ven 
tured. 

"  Cares  ?  Work  ?  What  meanest 
thou  ?  Cares  ?  Work  ?  I  Live  and  Love." 
And  with  this  she  bounded  lightly  across 
the  stones  in  the  stream,  laughing  and  shak 
ing  her  golden  head.  I  watched  her  till 
she  reached  a  fountain  of  crystals  on  the 
other  side  and  saw  her  draw  water  in  a  sil 
ver  jug. 

She  began  to  laugh,  a  low,  happy 
laugh,  because  some  yellow  butterfly  had 
alighted  on  a  fold  of  her  flowing  white  gar 
ment.  I  looked  over  the  hill  leading  to  the 
valley  where  the  great  warriors  live,  and 
saw  Percival,  first  and  comeliest  son  of  a 
mighty  king,  ride  forth  on  his  royal  white 
charger,  brilliant  with  white  and  gold  trap 
pings.  This  noble  knight,  with  his  heavy 
white  armor  leaned  on  his  saddle  bow  and 
gazed  about  the  glade.  Suddenly  his  eyes 

"5 


caught  sight  of  the  maiden.  A  love  light 
came  into  them,  and  he  leaped  from  his 
horse  and  stood  gazing  in  rapture  as  she 
filled  the  silver  pitcher.  She  looked  up  and 
saw  him.  At  that  he  went  toward  her,  but 
she,  with  a  light  laugh  ran  down  the  mar 
ble  steps,  on  up  the  path  of  lilies  and 
ferns,  laughing  all  the  while.  Now  and 
then  she  would  stop  and  pluck  a  white  and 
then  a  red  rose  and  throw  them  back  to 
the  youth.  Her  red  gold  hair  flowed  on 
her  shoulders  like  a  brilliant  cloak.  Soon 
the  youth  caught  her,  and  she,  laughing  all 
the  while,  wound  her  arms  about  his  neck, 
and  their  lips  met  in  a  betrothal  kiss. 

The  breezes  of  Heaven  murmured  a 
benediction. 

You  know  it  is  said  the  forest  gods 
during  the  darkness  leave  their  palaces  in 
the  caves,  wander  about  with  the  mountain 
nymphs  on  the  border  of  the  glade.  In  the 
days  when  I  kept  my  night  watches,  the 
mother  of  the  gods  came  to  me  and  told 
126 


me  the  Secret  of  Happiness.  But  when  the 
morning  sun  would  come  I  could  never  re 
member  the  words.  I  could  recall  but  a 
murmur  like  the  bubbling  of  the  stream. 

All  day  long  I  would  sit  at  my  work, 
and  always  dancing  before  me  or  resting 
near  the  reeds  of  my  easel  or  moulding  table, 
was  a  fair  smiling  child.  His  bright  mis 
chievous  eyes,  in  whose  blue  depths  there 
seemed  to  be  the  wisdom  of  years,  were  al 
ways  catching  my  gaze,  inviting  me  to  leave 
off  my  work.  His  pink  little  body  shone 
like  sea  pearl  in  the  sun.  He  had  wings 
of  gold,  and  around  his  manly  little  chest 
was  flung  a  golden  quiver  filled  with  arrows 
of  lapis,  each  tipped  with  a  blood-red  ruby. 
His  little  golden  bow  was  always  in  his  hand 
and  on  his  head  was  a  helmet  of  precious 
stones.  Day  by  day  he  came  and  sat  by 
my  side,  pointing  out  to  me  some  flaw  in 
the  modeling,  some  harsh  line.  And  I 
alway  found  he  was  correct.  One  day  he 
came  too  close,  he  stayed  too  long,  he  an 
noyed  me.  I  begged  him  go.  He  only 
127 


laughed  and  caressed  my  hair  with  his 
chubby  hands.  I  determined  to  have  him 
go.  He  took  my  mind  from  my  work. 
He  was  only  a  bothersome  child  and  I 
could  not  finish  my  great  work  if  he  were 
there. 

The  next  morning,  as  the  sun  shone 
down  in  his  mighty  splendor  on  my  fast 
growing  head  of  the  great  god  Pan,  I  heard 
the  little /ellow's  knock.  I  would  not  let 
him  in.  I  spoke  harshly  to  him.  He  gave 
me  a  look,  O  !  so  sad  and  pathetic,  and 
leaped  over  the  hedge  of  lilies  and  roses 
and  ran  past  me  swift  as  a  deer.  I  watched 
his  little  pink  figure  past  the  dahlias  and 
scarlet  poppies,  over  the  walls  of  the  orange, 
red  and  white  tulips,  along  the  edge  of  the 
glade,  among  the  mosses  and  ferns.  I  saw 
him  stop  before  a  maiden  all  in  white,  the 
tall  maiden,  who  answered  me  so  strangely 
in  the  forest.  She  stooped  to  kiss  him. 
They  ran  gayly  together  to  the  fountain. 

I  felt  a  sharp  pain  in  my  heart.  I  put 
my  hand  there  and  found  one  of  the  lapis, 
128 


ruby-tipped  arrows  buried  deep  in  my  flesh. 
I  could  not  draw  it  out  without  sharp  pain. 
It  seemed  to  be  cutting  into  my  soul.  I 
looked  at  the  roses  in  my  hands.  Their 
pale  petals  turned  a  vivid  red  and  they 
seemed  no  longer  wilted  but  had  drunk  in 
a  new  life,  and  were  full  of  thorns. 

I  turned  to  my  work.  Heavens  !  the 
face  and  the  head  I  had  spent  so  many 
hours  upon  were  no  longer  there.  It  had 
crumbled  to  pieces.  Only  the  stand  was 
left,  only  the  clay  foundation,  whose  rough 
edges  formed  a  curiously  cruel  face.  A 
vile,  sneering  old  hag  with  a  sinister  smile. 
I  looked  closer.  My  God  !  It  had  my 
features — my  features  distorted  and  mis 
shapen.  I  pulled  off  the  broken  pieces  and 
tried  to  mould  them  again,  and  alas  !  they 
all  turned  into  clumsy,  hideous  shapes.  I 
could  do  nothing.  My  hand  had  lost  its 
cunning.  I  looked  around  the  forest  and 
the  glade  so  lonely.  A  feeling,  a  fear,  an 
emptiness  of  heart  came  upon  me.  I  looked 
into  the  crystal  depths  of  the  blue  river 
129 


and  my  face  was  a  hideous  mask  of  wrin 
kles  and  hard-set  features.  God  !  I  cried 
out  in  anguish.  I  called  out  to  my  little 
baby  friend  with  his  golden  wings.  I  ran 
down  the  path  over  sharp  stones  that  cut 
and  bruised  my  feet.  I  sank  upon  a  rock 
and  buried  my  head  in  my  hands.  O  the 
pain  !  O  my  heart !  Bitter  tears  ran  down 
my  face  and  burned  my  skin.  I  called 
again  for  the  little  fair-haired  god.  He 
only  answered  in  a  low,  merry  laugh  as  of 
happiness.  I  looked.  Across  the  river  in  a 
bower  of  red  and  white  roses  and  tall  grace 
ful  lilies,  sitting  on  a  yellow  tiger  skin  is  the 
tall  fair  maiden,  reclining  with  her  head  on 
the  noble  knight's  breast.  He  looked  at 
her  and  whispered  in  her  ear ;  she  blushed 
and  smiled  back  in  happy  content.  The 
little  chubby  pink  god  was  playing  at  their 
feet,  his  merry  laugh  ringing  out  on  the 
perfumed  air.  I  fell  face  down  on  a  sharp 
rock,  cutting  my  side  and  the  blood  oozed 
from  the  wound.  As  I  lay  there  in  my 
anguish  I  could  still  hear  the  low,  happy 
130 


laugh  of  the  maiden  and  the  knight.     Just 
at  this  part  I  awakened. 

#  *  *  *  *  $i 

I  hear  the  postman's  ring.  Could  it 
be  possible  !  Yet  I  hope — I  think  if  I  saw 
his  dear,  familiar  round  hand,  I  would  sim 
ply  grab  the  old  postman  and  kiss  his  griz 
zled,  wrinkled  face.  I  will  send  this  off 
now.  The  old  man  is  waiting,  so  pardon 
my  abrupt  ending.  I  will  write  from  Lon 
don.  You  won't  mind  this  long  letter,  will 
you,  dear?  But  I  felt  I  must  tell  some 
one.  My  heart  was  bursting.  I  am  so 

happy. 

Your  loving 

KATHARINE. 


Letter  xx. 


133 


TELEPHONE  N?  3617. 

,  LONDON" 


HOTEL  CECIL, 

STRAND.  W.  C. 


January  2Oth,  1898. 

MY  DEAR  KATHARINE  : 

Will  you  felicitate  me  ?  To-morrow  I 
am  going  to  be  married  to  a  very  sweet, 
lovely  girl  who  has  consented  to  put  up 
with  my  oddities  for  life.  I  want  to  tell 
you  before  you  hear  it  from  anyone  else, 
and  I  know  you  will  congratulate  me  on 
my  happiness.  I  have  told  Miss  Keeling  of 
you,  and  I  want  you  to  be  friends.  I  shall 
bring  her  to  America  at  once. 


I  met  Edith,  Miss  Keeling,  in  India, 
where  her  father  held  the  place  of  chaplain 
of  the  British  Cavalry  Regiment  at  Poonah. 
He  died  a  month  ago,  so  we  will  be  mar 
ried  quietly  at  Edith's  Aunt's  (Lady  Play- 
fair),  to-morrow  morning.  Believe  me,  my 
dear  Katharine, 

Your  very  sincere  friend, 

JOHN  HARDING. 


136 


Letter  xxi. 


January  I2th,  1898. 

To  MRS.  HENRY  LAWRENCE, 

Spruce  Street,  Philadelphia. 

MY  DEAR  ISABEL  : 

Thank  you  very  much  for  your  kind 
words  of  sympathy.  There  is  nothing  to 
tell  you  other  than  you  have  read.  The 
physicians  said  it  was  the  bursting  of  a 
bloodvessel  from  overwrought  nerves  and 
mental  excitement.  We  found  her  dead  on 
the  studio  floor.  Confusion  all  about,  for 
she  was  preparing  to  go  to  London,  you 
know,  to  visit  the  Gordons.  I  enclose  a 
clipping  from  a  London  paper.  It  was 
clasped  in  Kate's  hand  when  we  found  her. 
You  may  remember  Mr.  Harding.  He  and 
Kate  were  very  friendly  at  one  time.  They 


were  both  wrapped  up  in  Art.  His  marriage 
was  quite  sudden,  I  hear.  I  send  you  the 
marble  Psyche.  Kate  would  wish  you  to 
have  it.  I  will  always  be  glad  to  see  you 
for  my  daughter's  sake  and  for  my  own. 

Yours,  cordially, 

ELLEN  PEMBERTON. 


140 


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